


Cliffjumper's No-Good, Very Bad Day(s)

by sparklight



Category: Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Hostage Situations, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Graphic Violence, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-05-18 21:59:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19343494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklight/pseuds/sparklight
Summary: Ficlets with SG!Optimus and a hapless and very discomfited Cliffjumper.





	1. Chapter 1

Cliffjumper knew the damaged axle he'd gotten earlier in the fight had made him _just slow enough_ when the huge black foot he'd intended to swerve _around_ instead hit him square in the middle with a loud, reverberating clang. He went flying, smacking with a thunderous crash against a half-collapsed jumble of metal plates rising up out of the ground.

The Autobots had been using it as a cover earlier, and he'd helped drive them away from that, out in the open, so they could be dealt with. He knew Megatron and Starscream would aim for capture before killing, and as frustrating as that was, it was _fine_.

Or had been fine, up until slagging Optimus Prime kicked him out of his altmode and, in three quick steps, crossed the smoky, scored battleground and scooped him up with one large hand tight enough around his neck his fingertips were twitching from lack of proper connection and his curses were turning to static.

"Cliffjumper!" Starscream's appalled cry rang over the battlefield, and the laser fire died out, drawing another garbled curse from Cliffjumper. His kick, as uncoordinated as it was, seemed more to bounce off Prime's thigh than do any actual damage - though, admittedly, he probably wouldn't have been able to dent the mech even if he wasn't disrupting his limb control by strangling him. His neck cables were going to be dented for _days_ if he didn't get a medic to fix that before his self-repair could, and if nothing changed right now, Cliffjumper would _definitely_ not want _any_ medic he was liable to be nearby in the immediate future to so much as _look at him_ , and even less be near enough to touch.

"I think we shall take our leave," Prime said, the smug, slag-ugly rumble of the words and smile in his voice vibrating through Cliffjumper's body. Worse was the hand, still tight enough to threaten to buckle the thin, flexible plating and cables around his neck, because its fingers were stroking, feather light, against the metal.

They all knew Prime wouldn't kill him, not when his threatening his life was what was buying the Autobots' retreat, but the damage he'd be willing to do just to prove a point would be worse than just a quick, clean kill.

The hand spread over his chestplates, wide and charged against the armour glass of his altmode's windshield and practically cradling the bottom seam where his sparkchamber would open, was a much more personally uncomfortable threat. No matter how Cliffjumper tried as Prime strode off, his furiously scrabbling hands could not move it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is yet again an older one, and contains some very rude soul kissing.

Waking up on the battlefield with his spark chamber bared from a blast that seemed to have peeled him open like a fragging banana but thankfully just left the inner workings slightly sooty was terrifying enough. Waking up with Optimus Prime looming over him wasn't just terrifying, it was basically a death sentence.

Just because he'd survived once by the grace of Primus and thanks to the Decepticons finding him, didn't mean he'd survive twice. Why he wasn't dead already, Cliffjumper didn't have a rusted clue, but the slagger probably just wanted him to be aware who did it and be online when it happened.

Prime shifted his weight, and Cliffjumper grit his teeth. Scratch that, Prime wasn't simply looming, more like _pinning him down_. One large hand was wrapped around his wrists, trapping his hands above him helm, grinding Cliffjumper's back kibble into the rusting, flaking ground by both their weights and straining the cables and joints in his arms. There was also a knee planted firmly against the join in his crotch, and that wasn't just uncomfortable, it was also pressing down on the joints and cables on one side of his hips, numbing everything down to his feet.

Carmine eyes glowed above him, far too close, and Cliffjumper practically convulsed in his attempt to get away.

"Gah---!" Trying to kick him, despite the prickling wash of interference down his sensory net, wasn't as satisfying as Cliffjumper hoped it'd be. His legs jerked unsteadily, clanging off Prime's thighs even more harmlessly than he _knew_ he could. Wide, overly bright optics met Prime's, tilted in a smirk, and while he'd like to stare the rusted impostor down, Cliffjumper dropped his gaze down. Down to where Prime's other hand was stroking light, careful fingers over his painfully bared and bare spark chamber.

A few mental alarms were silently added to the systemic ones blaring about damages at him. 

"Get the frag _off me_ \---!" Cliffjumper's vocaliser glitched into static, both thanks to the hand pressing against the base of his throat, threatening to crumple metal, and because everything from waist up was basically scrambled in some way from his injuries. His processor was ringing and all comm. lines were just static, though he tried to toss out something on the emergency frequency anyway.

Processor ringing with screeching reverb and feedback from that attempt, Cliffjumper couldn't keep his focus on the warnings and suggestions for fixes, his attention far more riveted by the dark mech looming above him, intermittently haloed by the fire and blasts from explosions somewhere behind them.

"Perhaps you should exercise some judgement in what you say right now, Cliffjumper. If you do, you might even walk away no worse for wear," Prime's voice was a dark, rumbling murmur that floated just above the worrying loud noise of Cliffjumper's engine, carried only by its own sonorous timbre as his hand wandered back down through metal shorn open to stroke with slow, teasing pressure down the curve of Cliffjumper's sooty spark chamber. It _almost_ didn't hurt, and Cliffjumper stilled himself to silence the embarrassing rattle of damaged metal tapping together from his tremble.

"Judgement? _Judgement_ , with your hand fraggin' right on my spark chamber!? And I think I'm pretty slaggin' worse for wea---" that didn't end in static. It ended on a squeak, Cliffjumper stiffening harshly enough from one end to the other to cause a protesting whine from his joints, and his optics as wide as they could go. The high-pitched click of his vocalizer seemed loud enough to echo all over the battlefield.

Dark ruby optics narrowed in a glittering slash of a smile.

"Ah. But _I_ didn't do this, so if you can leave this battlefield with no other injuries, I'm leaving you none the worse for wear." Prime's hand stilled, then shifted, fingers pushing each panel away from the center of the spark chamber like manually opening the petals of a flower and slowly baring white-blue light, practically screamed that that was a lie.

Even if Prime did no more physical damage, having the mech's hand hovering right above his spark, intimate and vulnerable as it was, was injury enough.

Cliffjumper's mouth formed on a few insults, a scream of stuttered rage and something that shamefully enough could have been pleas, but none of them were voiced past the spitting static or his own fearful fury, so _none of them_ counted. Optics nearly white, he tried to kick the Prime as he bent down and over surprisingly graceful, but once again his leg was helplessly convulsing too much to do much of any damage. The dark hand, lit bright by the desperately swirling spark, spread out so a thumb was planted right at the edge between two panels to keep the spark chamber open as those bright energies snapped against the dark faceplate. Red optics flicked up to meet blue, then down again.

"Rather different from an ember... so either you're not what you seem, or something truly odd happened out in the Rad Zone," Optimus murmured conversationally, his optics rising again to lock with Cliffjumper's.

Then he slowly, deliberately, lowered his helm just a few shades further down, just enough for both of them to feel the resistance, trembling energies wavering under the pressure from above. Cliffjumper shuddered, unable not to, a static gasp locked in his vocalizer as he mananged to snarl, baring his teeth. If he was dying like this, Prime would see nothing but defiance. But if death was on Optimus Prime's mind, it was to be a slow one, because with his mask pressed with terrible gentleness against Cliffjumper's very soul, he hummed. It set the metal of his mask vibrating, and he carefully nuzzled the bright blue heart of Cliffjumper's being, leaving the minibot arching up and trembling against him.

For what it was worth, Cliffjumper _did_ leave that battle with no other... physical, injuries. Megatron burst down from the sky a few seconds later, and Optimus didn't even put up a token of resistance. Not that he needed to.

The damage was done.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interesting ways of choking a cybertronian working against Cliffjumper.

The small room was too warm, all ventilation into it turned off. The air inside had long since gone syrupy hot, and every drag in of Cliffjumper's fans in an attempt at cooling his systems only resulted in the waste air belched out being another few degrees hotter. It was making thinking hard, his processor straining against the lack of cooling, and the steady stream of furious cursing had, at some point, trailed off into clumsy half-formed variations, skipping a syllable here or there, fuzzing out at the beginning or end.

When the door briefly opened, the blast of air that followed the towering figure of Optimus Prime inside seemed frigid in comparison, and Cliffjumper's cooling systems whined in his desperate attempt at making use of the brief respite.

It helped, but wasn't enough. He still missed Prime crossing the floor in two big strides - one astrosecond, he was at the door, the next, right in front of him - a large hand sliding around to cradle his face and tip his helm back. Prime's proximity washed Cliffjumper in an additional hot burst of _Prime's_ waste air, dispelling the wisps of relief Cliffjumper barely had had a chance to enjoy.

"Wh-zh the _frag_ , d'you wan'?" The words were embarrassingly slow, lacking any proper bite, and Cliffjumper bared his teeth a fairly long beat after he'd finished speaking, but the snarl rattling in his throat and engine felt good.

"It's thoroughly heartening to see stubbornness is something you share with yourself," Prime said, fingers digging into the softer metal of Cliffjumper's face, threatening to leave dents that'd last for a couple days at the least. That that would be the worst injury he'd suffer after three days in Iacon was either a blessing or mockery, especially compared to what'd happened when he first arrived. Cliffjumper wasn't sure which it ought to be considered, but on the other hand, it'd taken far too long to think through all that, and he flushed in humiliated rage at the way Prime's optics had slowly brightened in amusement.

"... Not like, th' slagg-gher _at all_." Well, he would _insist_ anyway, but compared to what he'd seen and been told about many others of both the 'Cons and the Autobots here, like Sideswipe Cliffjumper's alternate seemed curiously similar to himself, in very unsettling ways. Still, there were differences. Vast differences, but unfortunately his reaction to feeling Prime's engine rumble with his laughter wasn't one of them, not when Cliffjumper didn't have enough resources to ignore it, even less _hide it_ , both to himself and others. The purple rustheap crowding him didn't seem to mind. In fact, he seemed smugly delighted, his engine falling into what could only be called a purr.

"No?" Prime leaned in, his other hand sliding around Cliffjumper's back and gently tracing the bared curves of his hip joints while his body cut off the too-hot air and dumped even hotter air from his own vents right on top of Cliffjumper. "I have never liked being _lied to_ by insubordinate subordinates, my old friend. But perhaps you'll be more open to correction this time."

Like mercury and acid Prime's voice wound together with the too hot air in Cliffjumper's strained systems and made everything waver like underwater, all the while his hands were slow and light over Cliffjumper's hot chassis. It was hard to keep up with what Prime was doing, and _where_ , so Cliffjumper had no defense, no chance to mitigate his reaction, when one of those large hands slapped down with cruel precision over his aft, at an angle that jarred the too-bare joint.

"Sl---!" The rest was lost to a gasping warble as the smack turned into a grope, and Cliffjumper's attempt at straining _away_ , as much as he could do so when the tips of his feet barely touched the ground, ended up pressing himself _into_ Prime. Too late, he realized that, and shuddered with a static-laced groan as much for the blast of hot waste air washing over him, turning the air liquid in his vents it felt like, as for the hand that was now rather... lovingly, cradling his aft, holding him in place.

"Definitely more open, wouldn't you say?"

Cliffjumper knew it was only his overtaxed processor that made it seem like the Prime was speaking with an echo, like there were more than one mech in here talking in unison with them. They were alone, no matter how his inability to keep up with the sparking tingles from his sensory net made it seem like Prime had more than one set of hands.

Clutching to his scraps of stability, Cliffjumper raised his head, met coal-red optics, and kicked the slagger. Even if that, of course, was far too easy for Prime to avoid, as slow as Cliffjumper was; it still felt good to know he'd _done it_ , a certainty of motion against the shimmering skip of everything else.

Well, he wouldn't give the rusted solenoid what he wanted, no matter how hot it got in here!

The thought, however, was worryingly hard to hold onto in the face of the dizzying skip between hits to his aft he couldn't begin to brace against, half the time missing what'd happened until he felt the pain, and the slide of clever fingers, sparking static over sensitized metal. What Prime thought this was supposed to teach him, Cliffjumper couldn't begin to imagine, and he really didn't want to try either, because that way lay madness, surely.

He'd know sooner or later though, as much as he might not like it.

The next hit turned into a groping stroke, and Cliffjumper's processor swam with the heady tingle, carried down an unresistant sensor net on liquid-hot air he had no choice but to try and use to cool himself with.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Kinktober 2019 day two - size difference)
> 
> (from this list over here https://archiveofourown.org/works/20492990 )

Cliffjumper's pinned down by a knee to his chest, keeping him trapped against the wall through no effort at all. He can't reach anything of consequence like this, or _get at it_ , no matter how he hammers or claws at the metal within reach. Prime's knee joint is too well protected, his leg too heavily plated and... just too heavy in general. It's slagging _infuriating_.

Worse, he can hear the Prime chuckle above him, the sound gratingly _indulgent_. The fragger is amused, and, worse, _charmed_. Because Cliffjumper, like a normal, healthy minibot, only reaches to Optimus' Prime's knee. It's not even that he's _mocking him_ \- that, Cliffjumper could deal with, it's rather familiar - no, it's that he can hear the softening rumble of Prime's engine, turning near _silky_ in its tone, dropping until it's thrumming through Cliffjumper in a way that makes it impossible to ignore how large and powerful Prime's engine is. He's never been this close to _his_ Prime to know if they sound the same, but they're made exactly the same, they are---

They _are_ the same, no matter what Cliffjumper might think of it, though their sparks (embers) couldn't be any more different.

He doesn't want to think about it, but the mech pinning him to the wall with no effort at all, crimson optics glittering with darkening intention down at him, does not differ from _his_ Prime in looks aside from colours. Like a darkly cast shadow at twilight, black and purple and red, with the glow from the smelting pit behind Prime adding to the effect of a grotesque mockery of a sunset.

"Enough of that," Prime growls, but the sound is less anger and rather more _promise_ , all the more threatening for that, and Cliffjumper yells in protest as he's hauled up by one hand around his neck, losing his brief chance to dart away too quickly to do anything about it. The ground is there, and then it's _not_ , and Cliffjumper kicks at thighs, armour-covered hip joints, Prime's _midsection_ before he doesn't have any space or leverage to kick again when the mech presses in. He's now covering Cliffjumper from chestplates to the tip of his feet, the armourglass of his windshield and headlights both squeaking in protest under the weight. His feet are only touching Prime's hips, the fragger.

There's a heat in the chestplates pressed against his, swallowing the width of him under the girth of Prime's, and Cliffjumper squirms. Would never in his life admit that, under different circumstances, with a different mech (or the same one, just the _right one_ ), this would be embarrassingly hot. Now, the barest tingles of possible arousal are fighting against Cliffjumper's fear and anger instead.

"Let me tell you something, Cliffjumper," Prime purrs against one of his horns, large fingers caressing cables and plates that, compared to those fingers, feel thin like gold foil, "since you will not know this; my old friend did me the pleasure of fighting against me every time, for he knew what having such a small frame struggling against me did for me..."

Cliffjumper knows, even as he shudders from the chuckle making Prime's faceplate vibrate against his horn, sending skitters of unwanted sensation through him.

"Frag _off_ you rusted-over---nff!"

Two fingers strains his mouth to the limit, and Cliffjumper glares over them to the carmine glitter of Prime's optics, his intent written all over the narrowed line of them, in the deep rumble of his engine. Cliffjumper's only support is Prime himself, since he's dangling more than twice his own frame's length above the floor and he shudders, gritting his teeth against the fingers in his mouth, but Prime doesn't seem to be particularly bothered by the biting. Instead, he just shifts his hand, fingers practically stroking the inside of Cliffjumper's mouth, and tips his helm in a smile.


End file.
